The sound of Cal's fastball hitting Borp's mitt lingered in the air. The chatter from the bird-like players stopped, and even the gelatinous creature in the corner halted its movement.
"Cute," a voice rasped. It was as if dry leaves were skimming over pavement.
Cal turned to the dugout. Standing on the top step was a creature resembling a praying mantis made of oxidized copper. He—or it—was tall and painfully thin, wearing a manager's uniform that hung loosely over his exoskeleton. Four multifaceted eyes moved independently, focusing on Cal from different angles.
"That is Manager Xylos," Nex whispered, stepping back from the bullpen fence. "He played two hundred seasons in the Nebula League. He doesn't like humans. Says your bones are too soft for the grind."
Xylos scuttled onto the field, his movements jerky yet incredibly fast. He stopped halfway between the mound and home plate.
"Spin is nice," Xylos clicked. "Movement is pretty. But in the Galactic League, batters do not chase butterflies. They eat them." He pointed a serrated claw at the massive Brontok leaning on his tree-trunk bat. "Gorth. Get in the box."
Gorth grunted, a sound that vibrated in Cal's chest. The giant lumbered toward the plate. As he stepped into the batter's box, the reality of the situation hit Cal.
On Earth, a batter crowding the plate is annoying. Here, Gorth was the plate. His massive shoulders cast a shadow over the entire strike zone. He dug his back foot in, and the violet dirt crunched as it was compacted. He held the bat with two of his four hands, the other two waving menacingly in front of his chest to distract the pitcher.
Borp crouched, looking ridiculously small behind the giant.
"Live arm!" Xylos screeched. "If he hits it, Vance, try not to die."
Cal took a deep breath. The air tasted metallic. He looked at Gorth. The creature was a mountain of muscle and scales.
Physics, Cal reminded himself. It's just physics. Force, mass, acceleration.
Borp put down a sign for a fastball. High and inside.
Cal shook his head. No. You don't throw high and inside to someone with four arms; he'll just reach up and crush it.
Cal signaled for a slider. Low and away.
He wound up. The new muscle fibers in his shoulder felt alive. He released the ball.
It started at Gorth's hip—a pitch that looked like it would hit him. Gorth didn't flinch; he just growled. At the last moment, the ball bit. It swept violently across the zone, diving toward the outside corner.
WHOOSH.
Gorth swung. It wasn't a baseball swing; it was an act of deforestation. The bat whistled through the air with such force that the wind from the miss blew Cal's cap off his head.
"Strike one!" Nex called from the sideline, sounding pleased.
Gorth roared, slamming his bat onto the plate. A spark flew. He glared at Cal, his red eyes burning.
"Lucky spin," Gorth grumbled.
Borp threw the ball back. It smacked into Cal's hand.
"He is angry now," Nex noted calmly. "Brontoks hit better when they're angry. Their adrenaline glands run on a fusion cycle."
Cal rubbed the ball and watched Gorth adjust his stance. The alien moved closer to the plate, effectively daring Cal to throw inside. He was taking away the outer half, eliminating the slider.
He thinks I'm scared, Cal thought. He thinks the human will nibble at the corners.
Cal stepped off the rubber. He looked at Borp and shook off the sign. He did the same with the next one. Finally, he nodded.
The change-up.
It was the one pitch Cal hadn't tested with his new arm. On Earth, a good change-up relied on friction and deception. Here, with the extra grip and variable gravity, he wasn't sure what would happen.
But he understood hitters. Whether they were from the Dominican Republic or the Andromeda Galaxy, power hitters all wanted one thing: to pull the ball. They wanted to be out in front.
Cal wound up. He mimicked his fastball motion perfectly—same arm speed, same release point. Gorth's muscles tensed, coiled like springs ready to launch a projectile into orbit.
Cal pulled the string.
The ball left his hand, floating. It looked like a juicy meatball, sitting right in the middle of the zone.
Gorth's eyes widened. He saw the prize. He unleashed a swing that used all four arms, a quadruple-torque movement aimed to disintegrate the baseball.
But the ball didn't arrive.
It hung in the air, defying the 1.1 gravity for a split second longer than it should have, deadened by the backspin Cal had choked off.
Gorth's bat tore through the strike zone a full second before the ball got there. The swing's momentum was so great that Gorth couldn't stop. He spun around, his legs tangled. The four-hundred-pound giant tripped over his own feet and crashed into the violet dirt with a seismic thud.
The ball drifted gently into Borp's mitt with a soft pop.
Silence filled the dome.
Gorth lay in the dirt, a cloud of purple dust settling on his jersey. He blinked, looking up at the ceiling tiles.
Manager Xylos clicked his mandibles together and walked slowly toward the mound. He stopped a foot from Cal, staring up at him with those unblinking, multifaceted eyes.
"That was a circle change," Xylos said.
"Modified," Cal corrected, his heart pounding. "I call it the Dead Fish."
Xylos looked at Gorth, who was trying to untangle his limbs, then back at Cal. A strange sound came from the manager's throat—a dry, rasping noise. It took Cal a moment to realize the alien was chuckling.
"You made a Brontok fall on his ass," Xylos said. "I haven't seen that since the Championship of cycle 409."
Xylos turned to the dugout. "Get him a uniform. And get him a translator unit. If he's going to embarrass my veterans, he needs to be able to hear them curse at him."
Nex approached the mound, handing Cal his hat. "Well done, Mr. Vance. You just made the roster."
Cal put his hat back on. He looked at his hand, then at the fallen giant at the plate. For the first time since his shoulder injury three years ago, the future didn't seem terrifying. It looked like a game.
"Hey, big guy," Cal called out to Gorth, extending a hand to help him up. "Next time, wait on it."
Gorth looked at the small human hand and then up at Cal's face. The giant huffed, grabbed Cal's forearm, and pulled himself up, nearly dislocating Cal's shoulder in the process.
"Dead Fish," Gorth grumbled, dusting off his knees. "I hate fish."
But as he lumbered away, Cal saw the giant nod. It was a small gesture, but in any league, on any planet, it meant the same thing.
Respect.